


A Rogue Abroad

by Kings_Guard



Category: None - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2020-05-15 21:42:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19304398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kings_Guard/pseuds/Kings_Guard
Summary: Preface and first chapter of a novelisation of Robert Clive's early days in India.





	1. Chapter 1

Prologue

The boy was as impetuous and hot headed a boy as any ten year old could be but he was not stupid. So as he climbed up the outside of St Mary's church tower in Market Drayton he took good care in placing his hands and feet to gain a firm grip or foothold. The buttress he was using as a ladder was on the left hand side of the tower, and reached almost to its top, around eighty feet high. Looking up he could see two gargoyles just under the tower's battlements, leering down over the churchyard and the graves placed all around it.

By the time he was halfway up, just by the tower's bell window, quite a crowd had gathered. He could hear them gasping in shock, or shouting up advice or warnings to him - 'Take care' or 'Climb down at once' were some of the calls but he ignored them as he carefully made his way towards the tower's pinnacle. He'd always wanted to make this climb. Rather than hindering his climb having an audience added to the excitement of it all.

As he neared the top there was a narrow ledge to negotiate, just above the gargoyles. He reached out with his right hand to test the strength of the nearest gargoyle's position. It held firm, and as he peered at the cement holding it in place he could see no cracks or breaks that would indicate any weakness. He edged along the ledge using his hands and then, in one fluid movement that made the onlookers gasp, he swung his legs round the dragon shaped carving, steadied himself, and then, standing on the head of the figure, pulled himself through a crenallation in the battlements till he was safely on the roof of the tower. Looking down at the crowd he laughed and waved to them, then turned and spun round the weathercock in the centre of the tower, out of sheer delight at his feat.

A stentorian voice called up. 'Why are you up there, boy ?' He laughed again and called back down. 'I wanted to see what it was like up here. It's a fine view', which it was. The church was perched on a sizeable sandstone hill and from the tower he could see down the valley of the River Tern and across over the hills on the other side of it. Now with a captive audience he swung himself back over the battlements and perched on the gargoyle, his legs swinging from front to back as he continued to wave and laugh to the people on the ground below. As he sat there someone called up 'Who are you, boy ?'. 

'I'm Robert Clive. Remember me !'


	2. Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert Clive's arrival and early experiences in India

The young man looked over the rail of the barque Winchester as it dropped anchor in the port of Madras, in South East India, one June evening in 1744. His expression conveyed the seemingly contrasting emotions of excitement and apprehension. 

His excitement was partly the result of the view, colours and smells of the port, still teeming in the early evening. The masts of ships loading, leaving or, like the Winchester, arriving, stretched for what seemed like miles along and about the open roadstead of the port, off the low sandy coast. As a backdrop to this stood the magnificent sight of the European settlement's hub, Fort St George. The excitement was also the product of his imagination – what possibilities were there for him to advance in this new, exciting, and alien environment, a young man of energy and strength, imbued with the boundless possibilities of life ? 

But his apprehension was also rooted in his imagination – he was callow, inexperienced and virtually alone in a huge country he knew little of, and whose dangers meant the chances of survival for the average European were reckoned to be about 50%. For Robert Clive, lately of the little town of Market Drayton in Shropshire, England, this new challenge would either make his fortune or break him.

Tall and thin, Clive had piercing eyes set between a heavy brow above, and a large nose below, and a sensitive mouth with a long jaw culminating in a small but prominent chin. He was plainly dressed, as befitted a new factor, or clerk, of the British East India Company, whose business in the city he was to join. At just 18 he had already taken almost a year to reach India, twice as long as expected. Under incompetent navigation the Winchester had run aground near the Brazilian coast, off the port of Parnambuco, while attempting to catch the Trade Winds which would propel it south, to the Cape of Good Hope, and round into the Indian Ocean. 

Repairs took months, and while waiting for the voyage to restart he had his first of many brushes with death. Standing on the poop deck of the grounded ship he was swept off in a storm, only to be rescued by the Winchester's captain Seward, who threw a bucket on the end of a rope to him as he floundered, weighed down by his clothes, in the heavy seas, and dragged him back aboard. Clive still shuddered when he remembered the huge wave breaking over the ship, washing him over the side, breathless, and the cold, sucking weight of the sea drenching his clothes as he floundered to get just one hand on the bucket. After that he considered himself to be in debt to the captain, who he had previously judged to be a greedy, grasping man, as well as an incompetent sailor. He was soon in another sort of debt to Seward, as he exhausted the £54 he had been given for the voyage in the bars and taverns of Parnambuco, and resorted to borrowing from Seward, with a promise his father would pay his debts.

It was because of his father, and his connections with a director of the mighty East India Company, that he had secured the post of factor in India. As a scholar he had been truculent and bored, resulting in a number of expulsions. In his youth his temper had grown short and he seemed to revel in physical conflict. He ran a protection racket in Market Drayton, threatening to smash the windows of shops unless paid off. He was the eldest of a family of minor country gentry, who were by no means poor, but who lived beyond their means. He could not hope to live a comfortable life, appropriate to his station, without making his own way in the world. India seemed an ideal opportunity for him to make a fresh start and find a fortune in a country far bigger than England, with legends of fabulous wealth, and a civilisation far older than that of his homeland. He was in India now, and time would tell. As darkness fell he went back below to his cabin, ready to report for his duties at first light the following morning.   
2 

Robert Clive rose as dawn broke on the day after his arrival in Madras. He dressed carefully – the cabin was cramped and dark so it was all too easy to bump into things. Climbing up to the fresh air on deck he made his way to the side of the ship facing the beach, from where he would be taken ashore to meet his new employers. He was soon joined by the other three factors who had journeyed out aboard the Winchester with him – William King, John Pybus, and John Walsh. He had not grown friendly with any of them on the voyage even though King was his cousin. He resented the natural leadership of Walsh, who, having been brought up in Madras, was more at ease and confident than Clive, so when they wished him 'Good Morning' he replied with a curt 'Good day', a sharp nod, and turned back to the ship's rail, to watch for the little ferry boat. Madras had no natural harbour so these boats were used to transfer both passengers and goods through the lively swells the half a mile or so to the long sandy beach. 

He soon spotted a small, flat bottomed vessel with high sides, called a masulah boat, making its way to the Winchester. It was steered and propelled by a dozen or so natives, and had a passenger, a white man who appeared quite young, sat under an awning at its stern, looking towards the ship. 

As the boat came alongside, a rope ladder was thrown down over the ship's rail to it. While the boat's crew clung to the ship's side to steady it the European called up to the four young men craning their necks to look at him.

“You'll be the four new factors, then ?” he called up. “Tell me your names”, he continued, looking down at a book which evidently contained a short list of names. Before Clive could speak John Walsh called out “King, Pybus, Walsh, and Clive”, at which Clive fixed him with a stare and called out “Robert Clive, of Market Drayton”. 

“I don't need to know where you're from, just who you are. That's enough information for me” replied the man in the boat, at which the other three factors laughed, and Clive reddened at what he saw as a rebuke and an embarrassment. “Now, then, climb down to the boat one by one and I'll take you ashore and get you settled in”, he continued. At this Clive made sure he was first to the ladder and, with some agility, climbed down to the little ferry. As he reached its deck the European greeted him, “Robert Clive, then. I'm Mr Thomas Saunders, Company Secretary here. I'm your overseer and I'll be teaching you your duties”, and he offered him his hand, in such an amiable manner that Clive got over his brief embarrassment and shook it without hesitation.

The little boat left the ship immediately they were all aboard. “We'll fetch your luggage presently”, explained Saunders. “For now you'll met the governor, then we'll show you around, and get you settled in your quarters”.

At this Clive said “I have letters of introduction to Mr Benyon. Will I meet with him today ?”, he asked.

“Benyon departed some months ago, while your ship was delayed. I daresay the Governor will take them in hand”, answered Saunders. Naturally this wasn't the answer Clive was hoping for – he was known to Benyon. The Governor was unlikely to take any special interest in a mere clerk just arrived in Madras. Still, there was nothing to be done about it for now.

After a few minutes of bouncing through the heavy swell the crew reached the shallows off the long sandy beach and shipped the oars. A number of the crew jumped into the water and Clive found himself being ferried ashore on the back of one of them, to avoid him getting his feet, or   
3

anything else, wet. As they walked off the beach to the single sea gate of the fort they were assailed  
by natives offering themselves for employment as servants. Saunders pushed them aside without any ceremony – and little gentleness – so following his example the four new clerks shrugged them off without a word, hurrying after him.

As they reached the gate, and had left behind the breeze off the beach Clive's nostrils were assaulted by a miasma of smells, a mixture of body odour, animal and human excrement,   
sweet spices, and curry, so thick it almost stuck in his windpipe. As he coughed in an attempt to clear his throat Saunders looked back over his shoulder at him. “You'll soon get accoustomed to the reek”, he said, something which Clive had grave doubts about.

In the event Clive didn't meet the Governor that day, as Saunders had suggested, so he had no opportunity to present his letters to anyone of importance. Instead the new factors were shown the desks they would work at, and met various company officials. They were then taken to their accommodation at the company hostel inside the fort. When Clive was shown his two rooms he remarked to his guide that while light and airy they were very plain and somewhat dirty.

'No matter', Saunders replied. 'You'll find servants cheap enough here, and the company pays an allowance to cover the cost. They'll clean and paint as instructed, and do anything else you might want doing.'

'Until the place is tidied I'll remain aboard the Winchester, if that is permitted', Clive replied.

'Stay where you like as long as you report for your duties on time', he was told. 'I'd advise you not to find lodgings in the native town, though. You might form what the Company would consider to be unfortunate connections, and the consequences of that could be grave.'

After spending his first night as a company employee aboard the Winchester Clive duly arrived at his desk the following morning to be instructed in his new duties. He found his travelling companions already present, looking attentively at their guide of the previous day and now overseer, Saunders, who glanced at Clive as he took his place, and then remarked, 'Now that Mr Clive has consented to join us I will begin to...'

Before he could complete his sentence Clive stood up at his desk, clearly angry, and barked out, loudly, 'Sir, I attended punctually. Had I been required earlier than this I should have been so instructed'. The sound of his angry voice rolled through the large and high ceilinged office, causing a number of the more experienced clerks to look up from their work and exchanged amused glances.

Saunders looked at him, with a hint of amusement in his eyes. 'I am sorry you take my jocularity so seriously Mr Clive', he said. 'No disapprobation was intended, and you are not at fault. It was merely a way of opening my discourse on your new duties. Kindly let me begin'. With that he began to instruct his new subordinates in the ways and means by which the Honourable East India Company conducted its trade in the sub-continent. 

Over the course of the next few weeks Clive learned to fill in ledgers, inspect goods, rooting out and refusing the poor quality items that local merchants, both native and European, tried to foist on him, check inventories, file returns, and make new orders of goods from cloth to spice, ebony, opium, dyes, and ambergris. It wasn't long before he was heartily sick of the tedium of it all, and he began to resent his overseer, Saunders, who he regarded as loud and bossy. In his frequent letters to   
4

England he complained of the heat, the dirt, the insects that invaded his quarters, his superiors, the   
food and almost every aspect of his life away from home. Sometimes he wandered out from the fort to the edge of the flat country that stretched almost endlessly inland and said to himself, 'There must be more to life than this. I wonder what kind of opportunities there are to be had out there, more satisfying than the work of a shopkeeper ?'. In his mind was what he saw as the docility of the natives, and how they could be used, under instruction, to make a great future for himself. This was a country so vast and rich that a man, even a young one like himself, could, with determination and vision, rise high above the lowly status of a mere writer for the Company.

As his dissatisfaction grew, so his attitude to his work, his colleagues, and even his superiors deteriorated. The compulsory twice daily attendance at church rankled, the rigidity of the small and stultifying European society felt like a strait jacket that Clive longed to burst out from, and his natural rebelliousness soon began to cause trouble for him. His first clash with the company hierarchy was not long in coming.

Clive had been tallying bales of cloth in the warehouse one hot autumn day. Wearing only a shirt, breeches and a suncap he was unbearably hot, bathed in sweat, and increasingly in despair at the tedium of his task. Eventually he finished and with haste made his way to the Secretary's office to submit the tally sheet for inspection. 

On reaching the office he found it, as usual, a hive of activity. Other clerks were there, along with both native and European merchants, bankers, several ship's captains, and some native hangers on. With no work to do they thought they might pick up some useful information from the crowd that they could sell on. With all this crush it looked as though he would be waiting for a long time in the small room, hot and crowded as it was. It was too much for Clive in his agitated state.

'Damnation', he thought, 'I'll not stand here in this heat waiting my turn behind these idlers and ne'er do wells'. He pushed his way roughly through the crowd and, on reaching the Secretary's desk, put the paperwork on it, turned and began, amid rising anger from the crowd, to push his way back out of the office. Suddenly he heard a voice cut through the noise. It was the Secretary himself, calling Clive back to him.

'Mr Clive', said Saunders, 'you do seem to be in a great hurry. Kindly return to me so I can appraise your tally properly'. Reluctantly, and with growing embarrassment – and impatience – Clive turned again, and made his way to Saunders desk. As he reached it Saunders picked up the tally sheet, and looked with gentle amusement at the sweating and embarrassed young clerk. 'Well', he said, in a kind voice, 'as you're in such a hurry I'd better deal with this first'. Clive reddened again, and his temper rose, as he felt he was being singled out. In reality Saunders was only doing his duty, and was being kindly in not making the obviously discomfited clerk wait his turn.

As Saunders checked the tally against the order sheet Clive became more and more anxious and embarrassed. 'Why can't he hurry up', he thought to himself. 'I look like a damn fool standing waiting for him to give me my orders'.

After a short time Saunders looked up and said 'Well, Clive, that accounting is very fine. Just one thing, for your own advantage in future, sometimes it's difficult to be sure what figure you are recording. Take a second more to write it clearly. T'will save time all round. Thank you', he concluded, and turned back to the next piece of business. It was too much for the sweating, tired, and embarrassed Clive. He was being humiliated by this pompous prig, and in front of natives as well ! He wouldn't stand for it !  
5 

Instead of leaving the desk he said, loudly, 'I am not aware of any errors of legibility in this   
return, Mr Saunders. Please show me where they may be'. With this he fixed the surprised Saunders with a glare. This time the hubbub, which had quickly resumed, dropped away to nothing. A startled Saunders looked up in shock as the red faced young man stood rigid, in an attitude of what seemed to be total insolence, after merely being given a gentle piece of advice.

The Secretary, hoping to diffuse the situation, quickly picked up the tally sheet. Looking down it he soon found an example to show Clive.

'See here, Robert, I had difficulty seeing if this number was a five or an eight', he said, as he showed Clive the sheet. 

Clive almost snatched the sheet from the perplexed secretary, looked at the indicated figure, and said, curtly, 'Clearly a five'.

'Yes, after inspection it is, but we rely on clarity so we may work more efficiently. Clear and legible means fast and profitable', Saunders said to him.

'To me, it is clear and legible, at one glance', said Clive, aware of all the eyes on him, and his temper now almost beyond control. 'Is it my damned fault you need spectacles, Saunders ?', he almost bellowed, and then turned on his heel, leaving the astonished Secretary staring his back as he pushed and shoved his way from the office. The noise in the room suddenly welled up to a crescendo as all the occupants began babbling about the incident in English, Hindi, Portuguese, and half a dozen more languages.

While having a foolish temper Clive was not a fool. He knew there would be consequences for his behaviour – no one could permit a mere factor to behave with such effrontery to the Secretary. What the outcome would be was open to question though, and occupied his mind greatly. He could be dismissed – that would be the worst (and also best) case, he thought. With little money left and no friends he would have to beg his father for the fare home, unless he could persuade a usurer to lend him money at extortionate rates. He could be fined, or reprimanded, neither of which prospect pleased him.

It wasn't long before he was summoned to see Nicolas Morse, Governor of the European settlement at Fort St George, and head of the company in Madras. It was to be a brief meeting. 

'Mr Clive, do you know why you are here?', asked Morse.

'Indeed, sir, because of my behaviour to Mr Saunders', Clive answered.

'Would you allow a subordinate to behave as you did to Mr Saunders ?'.

'No, sir, I would not suffer such behaviour. The effect on the hierarchy of command would be devastating !', Clive answered.

'Given your behaviour, then, you would acknowledge you are at fault, and that Mr Saunders deserves, at the least, a personal apology', replied Morse. 

Clive thought quickly. He could see exactly what the Governor meant. An apology would be a little thing compared to the other outcomes. He was in the wrong, and, while he may not think   
6  
much of Saunders or his own job an apology would restore some of the honour he felt the incident had cost him.

'With your permission, Governor, I will seek him out immediately and acknowledge the fault', he said., and after a nod from Morse he turned on his heel and went straight to the Secretary's office.

Finding Saunders at his desk, and his office, for once, a little quiet Clive summoned up what tact he possessed, and came straight out with his apology. 'I apologise, sir for my rudeness and disrespect to you yesterday. I was completely at fault'. He essayed a stiff bow.

'Granted, Clive, granted', said Saunders.

Clive clearly thought that enough, and he made to move past his superior and leave the scene of something that he still found an embarrassment. As he did so Saunders laid a gentle hand on his arm. 'Will you join me and some other friends for dinner tomorrow ?', he asked.

Clive's response was instant, and clearly without thought. 'Sir, I was commanded to apologise to you, which I have done. The Governor did not command me to dine with you', and with that he stalked out, leaving Saunders looking aghast after him.

After this incident Clive became more circumspect in his behaviour. He still abhorred both Madras and his work but he was careful not to repeat his insubordination. He took comfort in the local pleasures, chewing the hallucinogenic Betel nut. He began to visit the little parlours in the native 'Black Town' outside the walls of the fort and would while away many free hours over wine or punch. He, with some effort, avoided the brothels, however. He remembered the warning he was given on his arrival – the discovery of that sort of activity by a white man in the pay of the Company could only result in dismissal. There was a strict hierarchy in the relationship between native and white people. In any case few kept secrets in a small community like the Fort, with less than 400 residents and an atmosphere that was stulted and stuffy. In an effort to combat his loneliness he made efforts to make friends amongst his fellow Europeans, including the other factors he had ignored before

Not all his free time was spent in indulgence, though. For some reason Morse had taken a liking to him, or pity on him, perhaps and allowed him free access to his library. Clive was assiduous in filling the gaps in his education, taking full advantage of the Governor's kindness. 

Still, there were times when the tedium of his work, the climate, the unfamiliar food, and, worst of all, his homesickness, almost overwhelmed him. One night, coming into his quarters late, in a fit of despair and self pity, he primed a flintlock pistol, and put it to his head. 'I am sick of this life and its tedium' was his last thought, as he pulled the trigger. Instead of blackness and oblivion he heard a click of the trigger as the gun failed to fire. Checking the powder and flint were set correctly he tried again. Once more the pistol refused to fire. Astonished, he pointed the pistol out of a window, and pulled the trigger. This time the pistol went off, sending the ball into the dark night. To Clive this was a sign. 'I am reserved for something', he told himself. He had served two years in Madras, under the same conditions, when that something seemed to become clear to him. The French,having bribed the local ruler, Nawab of the Carnatic, to remain neutral attacked both Fort St George and the city of Madras itself.


	3. Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> French attack on Madras

7   
Escape

The vast riches of the sub continent had been an object of European rivalry for two hundred years or more. Apart from France and Britain both Holland and Portugal had made great efforts to dominate trade between India and Europe. While they still had a presence in the country the main contest was between two countries that had shared much history, and therefore much emnity, since the Norman invasion of England almost seven hundred years before. The new conflict between the two countries in Europe over the question of the Austrian succession in 1745 had provided a new impetus to that rivalry which spread wherever the two countries encountered each other, including India.

For the majority of the time since there had been a permanent European presence in India the reason for that presence was purely commercial. While the European nations had settled there for the long term they acknowledged the sovereignty of the local rulers, paid their rents and taxes, and maintained small forces only for the purpose of protecting their settlements, trade, and goods. However, in the person of Jean-Francois Dupleix, governor of the French settlement of Pondicherry, south of Madras, there was a man who had shared Clive's vision of an empire in India, but was in a position to achieve it. As old enmities flared the East India Company requested an English fleet to attack the French presence off the Coromandel coast, while it tried to regain some of the trade lost to France in the preceding years.

The fleet arrived in 1745 attacking, capturing or destroying a number of French vessels, resulting in Dupleix requesting that a French fleet be despatched. The two fleets met in an indecisive battle in July 1746. Both sides withdrew to make good their losses, repair and reprovision. Two months later, when the French fleet put to sea to engage their enemy again they found, to their astonishment, that their enemy had disappeared. Madras and Fort St George were now virtually defenceless, an opportunity that Dupleix had every intention of taking advantage of.

When Clive woke on the morning of 7th September 1746 it was to the sight of French warships offshore, and a mixture of French and native soldiers landing to the south of the fort, evidently with the intention of taking control of the city.

Clive quickly made his way up to the western wall where he found most of the other clerks already watching the landings, one of whom, John Walsh called over to him.

'Morning, Clive. Come to see the show ? I don't think we'll be counting bales today'.

'Hello, Walsh, I'd say not !', Clive replied. 'There's a devil of a lot of them, though, ain't there . How many would you reckon ?'.

'Can't be sure, but there's bound to be more than our garrison. We've only around three hundred all told'.

'Still, we should be alright here in the fort, don't you think ? Hold them off, till they get bored, or the Navy comes back and causes them some mischief, eh ? They're only Frenchies, after all', Clive replied.

'Hmmmm. I'm not a military man but I saw a note that old Commodore Barnett wrote to the Governor some time ago, before he died', Walsh replied. 'Talked about the walls being too thin to resist cannon fire and the bastions being wrongly positioned. I dare say it will depend on how heavy a fire the Frenchies can bring down, and how good our garrison are. They haven't seen much fighting, I can tell you that. Most of them are just local mercenaries, with little training and a mixture of weapons that might frighten your grandmother but won't have an answer to trained European infantry'.

'Captain Eckman's an experienced soldier, though, isn't he ? He'll set them at it', Clive responded.

'If you'd said old soldier I'd agree', Walsh answered. 'He must be over sixty now. I can't see him leading a charge out to evict the Frogs off our turf. We'd best hope Barnett was exaggerating to get the Company to spend some money on the defences, and that the fort's stronger than he suggested'. With that they both looked back over the wall to watch the enemy's progress, while the garrison tumbled out of their barracks, desperately dragging their uniforms on, harangued by the eldery Swede Eckman. Look back over his shoulder at the disorder and tumult Clive found that any confidence he may have had in the Company's soldiers began to drain away. The native soldiers, or 'peons', as they were known, were ill equipped with anything that looked like a weapon - tulwars spears, or old matchlock muskets. Only the red coated European soldiers, who were outnumbered by the peons, had effective muskets, the immensely long 'Brown Bess' flintlock.

The French ships, stood out from the beach, soon began a cannonade. This was designed both to occupy the defenders and breach the walls in preparation for a land assault by the dismbarked infantry. who were setting up a defensible position from which to attack. It seemed, though, that the gunners on the ships were either inexperienced or didn't have the proper ranging equipment. Their shot either fell short or sailed over the fort to land in the flat scrubland behind. Though Clive and the others stayed on the there all day it soon became tedious. Little damage was done and as light faded and the firing died away he and the others came down from the walls, remarking to each other 'If that's the best they can do..', and 'they'll be gone by tomorrow, you mark my words'.

The barrage that awoke Clive soon after first light the following day proved the latter prediction wrong. Evidently the 'Frogs' hadn't sailed off in the night and were still intent on taking the fort. What was worse was that the firing, while not intense, was more deliberate and more accurate. He could hearing shot landing within the fort's boundaries or crashing into the walls. Once again he dressed quickly and found his way to where he had watched events the previous day. Once again the garrison had stood to, and were in position along the walls. He could see the Governor amonst them, conferring with Eckman, a worried look on his face. By the end of the previous day the defenders had jeered and offered up a ragged cheer each time a French gun had fired, so inaccurate had the fire been. Nobody was doing that now – when a gun fired at the fort every defender's head dropped down below the walls as they crouched behind what protection it offered. Clive quickly followed suit, and found himself hunkered down next to John Walsh again.

'Here again, Clive', Walsh said, giving him a weak grin. 

'Indeed so, Walsh, though I hoped I wouldn't be !'.

'The Frenchies look like they're here for the duration, don't they ? Their shootings improved somewhat as well, wouldn't you say ?', Walsh replied. The fire slackened for a moment and both men risked peering over the wall. 

'Seems they've stopped firing from the ships', someone called out.

'Maybe they've run out of shot', said another voice. As he finished speaking there was a number of booms, this time from the land, and a number of loud shrieks as some sort of missile flew in a trajectory over the walls and came crashing down inside the fort. 

'Good lord, they've got mortars as well', said Walsh. As he spoke the defenders responded with a ragged fire of muskets and pistols towards the mortar positions. 'Won't hit a thing worth a damn at that range', he continued. Still, the little show of resistence seemed to encourage the defenders , and they fired again, to faint cheers. It was followed by a shot from one of the fort's own guns, which ploughed into the ground short of the mortars positions. 'That's more like it', Clive shouted. 'Give them some more !'. A few more shots followed from the other guns but they soon fell silent. 'Must be saving their fire for when they try to breach the walls', said Walsh. 'Could be a long day', he added.

As the day wore on the fire continued, steady, slow and deliberate, and began to cause damage. Nothing major – a few buildings hit, some casualties, hits to the walls and so on – but with few means to respond the strain on the defenders, and on the helpless civilian population sheltering in their houses, began to tell. The garrison, almost to a man, began to stay hidden behind the walls. When the shriek of the mortar shells was heard everyone looked upwards, fearing that the missiles would fall out of the sky onto them, killing them without warning or a chance to take cover. 

Clive had been watching as part of the garrison, known as the gun room crew, scrambled to bring powder and shot from the stores to the few large guns placed on the bastions.

'Listen, everyone', he called out. 'We could help stock up the guns. That would let those fellows doing it now get up to the walls with a musket, and keep them fresh for when the Frenchies eventually attack, if they ever do ! Follow me !'. He jumped up, and went down from the wall to find the bombadier in charge of the fort's artillery, follwed by the half dozen clerks. Walsh among them, who'd all been watching as the day developed.

Clive found the bombardier, Joseph Smith, organising the ferrying of artillery supplies by the powder house. 'Mr Smith', he called, 'I'm Clive, of the writers here. We can help with supplying the guns'.

'That would be very helpful', Mr Clive, Smith responded. 'It won't be long till the Frenchies attack. We need the guns fully supplied as soon as may be !' 

At that Clive turned to the other clerks. 'Walsh, you, King and Pybus seen to the servicing of the guns on the first two bastions. The rest of us will supply the others'. With that Clive started the heavy physical work of bringing small barrels of powder and extra shot to the hoists at the bottom of the bastions, where it was hauled up by the gunners, ready for use. It was hot, tiring work, and the lack of return fire from the English guns gave them no encouragement. 

The French bombardment continued but there seemed no sign of an attempt to storm the fort. Clive saw a number of casualties brought down from the walls, some with horrible wounds gaping open and bleeding, one or two dead from shell splinters. Some of his fellow clerks shuddered at the sight and looked away but Clive felt strangely unmoved by the realities of war, even in a battle as surreal as this.

Eventually the constant bombardment wore away at the defenders nerves. Soldiers, particularly those who had seen the casualties, began to sneak away from their posts on the wall, and only if Eckman or one of the other officers spotted them and ordered them back would they return to their positions. Soon even the officers hectoring wasn't enough to persuade them, amd arguments broke out as discipline began to crumble. Clive looked on contemptuously.

'Eckman is no commander, so there is little to encourage his men to stand fast', he remarked to Edmund Maskelyne, a fellow clerk. 'He should lead from the front, and shoot the first man deserting. That's the way to keep discipline under fire'.

'I wouldn't argue, Bob', his friend replied. 'Have you a notion for soldiering, when this is done ?'.

'If this is the best the professionals can do, then I can't see how I can do any worse', he replied. As he spoke he heard the distinct crump of the guns in the fort at last opening a sustained fire, as if to encourage the defenders to stay at their posts. 'At last ! Let's go up and see what our guns can do !', he shouted, and rushed to the nearest bastion, climbing rapidly up the steps. As he reached the top he saw the fuse of the nearest gun lit, there was a crump as the ball left the muzzle, and then a huge cracking sound as the wooden gun carriage collapsed under the strain, and the barrel rolled off its mounting, narrowly missing crushing the gunners under its huge weight. Similar things happened to more of the guns, as the cost of not maintaining them came home at the worst of times, as it always does.

Clive shook his head in disgust but was soon distracted by the noise of angry voices, shouting and arguing, with the odd musket shot thrown in. As he and his companions looked down into the fort they saw more than a few soldiers, evidently those who had escaped the wall, reeling about, bottles in hand. They were mutinous and ready to fight, but only with the civilians in the fort. Looking beyond them it was clear that a warehouse full of liqour had been hit by an incoming shell and the soldiers had taken advantage of the breach to help themselves. Captain Eckman was nowhere to be seen. Still the French bombardment went on.

'What can we do, Clive ?', Maskeylne said, as the other clerks looked to Clive as if for leadership. 

'Without arms, against such drunken cowards, we can do nothing', he said. 'There is no sensible reason to risk injury or death in such a circumstance. It would be best if we were to take shelter, stay out of their way until sense prevails, or, God forbid, the fort falls and the French exert some control. Let's find a way around them until things calm down'. With that the clerks made their way carefully to their quarters and blocked the doors in case of intruders. They weren't alone in doing so. The small civilian population seemed to have vanished off the streets, as the carousing went on, almost without pause, for the rest of the day. Clive had little sleep that night, as he contemplated the inevitable fall of the fort and Madras itself to the hated French.

When Clive woke the next morning the sound of gunfire was gone. Had the French given up, he wondered ? It would be typical of them, he thought, not to have the courage to storm the fortress, thinking a bombardment would be enough. They didn't know Englishmen if that was so ! He dressed quickly and hurried out to see what was happening. He was surprised to see the fort's gate was open, and there semed to be a crowd gathering around the Governor, Morse, just inside the walls. He spotted his friend Maskeylne and hurried over to him.

'Morning to you, Robert', Maskeylne called out as he saw him approaching. 'Come to see the show ?'.

'What show is that, Edmund ?', he asked.

'Have you not heard ? We are to surrender to the Frenchies, forthwith'.

'Without so much as a fight ? What the devil's going on ?', Clive asked, in astonishment.

'It seems the Governor has been prevailed upon to sue for terms by certain of the civilian population, afraid of the gunfire and the drunkeness of our gallant defenders', he was told.

'Where is Captain Eckman ? Can he not put his men in order ?'.

'Too late, Robert, too late. Eckman has taken to his bed, saying there is nothing more he can do. Smith collapsed and died late last night – he looked worn out – and with no defenders Morse was persuaded to show a white flag. He looked ready to collapse or even bolt for it himself'.

At this Clive's face flushed red, he stiffened, and he felt a hot wave of both shame and anger burn through the core of his body. 'This cannot be tolerated, Edmund. I must talk to the Governor at once, tell him of the shaming of England if he were to surrender to the damned French so easily !', and he began to stride towards the crowd until Maskelyne caught his arm.

His friend spoke to him urgently. 'I told you Robert, it's too late. All is done. The garrison is disarmed, our guns spiked – as if they needed that – and all that is left is the formal entrance of the Frogs. There's nothing you can do'.

Clive's faced burned red again, his fists flexed and bunched, and his eyes stared out at Morse in an expression of hatred and fury at what he saw as the Governor's cowardice. In a bid to calm him his friend Maskelyne spoke again.

'It's not so bad, Robert. We civilians are to give our parole, and will be free to do as we please. The French will occupy the fort and seize the company's goods but private property will be respected. Of course we'll have no work to do but.....'. Maskelyne's vote trailed off as Clive pulled himself free and stalked away from the scene of his country's humiliation.

The blue uniformed French soon entered the fortress with their commander La Bourdonnais at their head. Despite it all Clive and the other clerks could not stop themselves watching as their flag was lowered and the French flag run up in its place. To himself Clive said 'I will never see our flag surrendered again, and that damned rag put in its place'.

Over the next few days the victors began to loot the company warehouse of all its goods. Clive and his new core of friends – Maskelyne, Walsh & Pybus – watched what they regarded as theft with contempt. They responded to the barking orders of French soldiers with looks of defiance but none, even Clive, were foolish enough to provoke any sort of confrontation that could only end one way. What they could not know of was the confrontation between Madras's conqueror, La Bourdonnais, and the man nominally his superior, Dupleix, governor of Pondicherry, who had far greater aspirations than merely looting Madras. 

Dupleix berated La Bourdonnais for offering such easy terms and urged him to raze the fort to the ground and send him all the English as prisoners, to be paraded as a symbol of the power of France. La Bourdonnais refused to do his bidding, saying he had reached an honourable agreement and would not break his word. As he was in control of Madras, and, more importantly, the powerful forces occupying it there was little Dupleix could do other than rage at his countryman and write letters back to France urging that he be given control of all French forces in the area. Any response could be as much as a year away.

This situation continued for nearly a month. Having no work to do the clerks idled the days away, drinking, playing cards, and baiting the occupiers. Clive's mood varied between rage, a drunken sloth, and an itch to be away from Madras altogether. 'If only I hadn't given my parole' he would often exclaim.

In mid October nature intervened to change the situation in Madras completely. A tropical rainstorm reached Madras, followed by a strong wind which over the course of the storm grew into a violent gale. Idling in the hostel as the storm grew Clive heard a shout from the roof. It was Walsh. 'The French ships, they're leaving, by God'. Rushing to the roof the clerks started cheering as they saw the French fleet leaving the unprotected anchorage to escape the storm. As they watched the enemy ships weighing anchor they cavorted and catcalled from the roof of the hostel as French soldiers shouted angrily at them, waving muskets and threatening to shoot. Eventually the threats became aggressive enough to force the little band of clerks off the roof and back to their accommodation.

The next morning the storm had pased and the anchorage was empty of French warships. With them had gone La Bourdonnais as the fleet commander. Pleasing though this was to Clive and the rest of the English the fort was still occupied by French soldiers. They were joined later that day by more, led by La Bourdonnais' rival, Dupleix, leading his force from the south into Madras.

Dupleix had a reputation as a quick, decisive leader, not given to panic, resourceful and inventive. It was a reputation entirely justified. Clearly he had heard of the events in Madras. The departure of his rival allowed him to assume the control which he believed was his by right. He had the opportunity to put into effect his plan to remove English influence and extend French power through the Carnatic region, as a start to taking India entirely under French influence.

The French governor was a small man in his mid 40's, beginning to develop middle age spread but he knew how to make an entrance. Clive and his friends watched him ride in on a fine white horse, dressed in all his finery, and bearing a disdainful expression which bordered on the haughty as his eyes swept over the assembled crowd. Behind him were a mixed force of French and native troops numbering in the hundreds. Clive's heart sank at the sight. Even the return of the English fleet would not force the French out of the fort or the city. Once again he began to think of escape so he could help his country recapture Madras.

Dupleix didn't wait long to make his presence felt. He summoned all the Europeans into the fort's square, including Clive and his companions. They were informed that the agreement negotiated with La Bourdonnais had been revoked, as the French admiral had exceeded his authority in making it. Morse and the senior company officers were to be taken under guard to Pondicherry. The remaining English would be freed and turned out of the fort into the town itself to fend for themselves as long as they promised not to take arms against the new garrison. Failure to make such a promise would mean imprisonment in their hostel for an unspecified period.

'I'll not submit any further promise to the French', was Clive's reaction. 'This frees us from our parole. If we can't find a way to escape we don't deserve to be Englishmen. I'm for prison, for as long or short as it lasts. What about the rest of you ?'

'I'm with you', said Maskelyne, followed by Walsh and Pybus. 'I'd not fancy trying to make a living among the natives in any case', said Walsh. When asked for their promise all four men refused and were marched, under guard, back to the hostel, where they were locked up in the clerks quarters, with an armed guard to ensure they stayed there. All four now turned their thoughts to escape.

'We must observe how tight our confinement is before we can make a firm plan', Clive told the others. 

'I propose we make south for Fort St David', Walsh replied. 'It's, what, seventy miles ? The country between here and there will be crawling with Frenchies. We might have to cover far more than that as we work our way round them'.

'Before we go we'll need to provision ourselves for the journey, or at least the start of it', Pybus suggested. 'Perhaps we could get a pack horse or donkey. Would your servants help in that, Clive ?'.

'I know they will do what they can, but we may not have the time to obtain an animal. We must take our chance when it comes. If we can take some provisions to begin with we have enough money between us to buy what we need on the road', Clive replied.

The chance to escape came far sooner than they expected. They had one regular guard and his attention to duty was very lax. He often fell asleep on his chair, or left his prisoners completely, wondering off to another part of the fort. Their door was frequently left unlocked, after their frugal meals had been served to them. They were barely two days into their confinement when the opportunity came, early in the evening.

The first indication that their chance might have come was a growing noise in the direction of the main gate of the fort. Peering out of a window they could see thousands of the native inhabitants of the Black Town gathering at the gate, and being directed by French soldiers where to go. Their guard was just as curious. After a few minutes his curiosity overcame him, and he left his post, presumably to investigate the commotion. After a moment or so Clive spoke out.

'We won't get a better chance than this. All those people milling about are a perfect crowd to get lost in, as long as we look the part. Let's get ready'. 

At this the four prisoners shrugged off their outer clothes. From a wardrobe they retrieved the native clothes they'd obtained and slipped into them, then blacked their faces and hands as well as they could to blend in with the crowd.

Clive quietly opened the unlocked door and made his way silently along the corridor to the staircase. After listening intently for any sounds he signalled to the others to follow him. Once together they slipped downstairs and out of the building, heading for the crowds at the main gate. As they went through the gate they could see the French ordering the crowd to pile up furniture against the walls, presumably in preparation to burning the fort down. Pushing through the crowds outside they had a scare when someone began to jabber at them in the local language. When he received no reply he came closer, peering at them closely. Suddenly he called out 'English, English'   
loudly, pointing at the four men. Fortunately his cries were drowned by the noise of the mob, and apart from a few curious glances no one paid them any attention as, in a state of near panic, they pushed through the crowds, heading south, away from the city, in the direction of Fort St David.


	4. Fort St David

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clive arrives at the Company settlement of Ft St David, engages in a duel, and eventually enlists as a soldier

Fort St David

Clive and his companions took three days to reach Fort St David, much of it spent dodging French patrols and giving their stronghold at Pondicherry a wide berth. Travelling mostly by night they arrived there as the sun was coming up, and were met by the sentry's challenge, in use by then for around 500 years.

'Halt ! Oo goes there ?'

Clive looked up to see a red coated soldier, evidently English, peering at him in the early morning light, from the battlements above the entry gate. His musket, and that of his fellow guard, was pointing at the small group of 'natives' who had stopped some yards short of the closed entrance gate.

Before anyone could respond the guard called down again.

'Oi ! Don't you natives know there's no entry afore gate's opening ? Yer'll 'ave ter wait outside fer now'. All this was relayed in English, of course. On the off chance that the small group of 'natives' didn't understand he gestured vigorously with his musket and shouted. 

'Chale jao, Chale jao !' – Hindi for 'go away' – several times.

Once he finished both gesturing and shouting Clive called up to him.

'We're not natives. We're Englishmen escaped from Madras'. The soldier gawped down at him, eyes wide open in surprise.

'English, are you ? What you doin' dressed up like that, then ?' ,he asked.

'Do you think we could have escaped and made our way here, past the French, dressed otherwise ? We'd have been back in prison before we'd covered ten miles', Clive called back.

The sentry considered this for a moment, head cocked to one side, while the light grew. 'Orlright', he said. 'Tommy', he said to his companion, 'go fetch Mr Ferris. You lot jus' wait there, till the officer comes', he called back down to the four men at the gate.

It didn't take long before Tommy was back with a young leftenant, accompanied by two more musket bearing infantrymen. Rather than peer down at them from the gate house he had the gate opened and strode out to the companions who had now sat themselves down in the dust in front of the gate. As he approached they sprang up to meet him.

'Good day to you', said Clive, holding out his hand. 'I, and my three friends, are employees of the East India Company, newly escaped from the French at Madras'.

For a moment Ferris hestitated before taking Clive's hand. Then he said 'By God, you are English !' and shook Clive's hand vigorously. 'What possessed you to dress up like that ? You are a sight ! I've never seen an Englishman dressed up like a native before ! Couldn't ever think of it, myself'.

'A necessary aid to escape', Clive told him. 

'Well, I'm sure Governor Hinde will be eager to hear your tale. I'll send a messenger to him rightaway. In the meantime you look like you'd like to get out of those filthy native clothes and get that damn colour off your faces. Follow me', Ferris said, as he strode off to the gate.

Two hours later, washed, fed and refreshed, the four young men were summoned to meet the outpost's Governer, accompanied by Ferris. As they entered his small office inside the fort he stood up, came round his desk and shook all four men by the hand in turn.

'Ferris has told me of your escape from the damned French ! Well done indeed, young men, well done. Imagine dressing up as a native ! What an idea !', he said. 'Now, tell me what you know of the French forces at Madras, for I've no doubt we'll see them here soon enough. How many men, how many native soldiers, how many Europeans, what guns do they have ?', he said as he began to question them closely.

'You expect them here, then, Sir ?', said John Walsh as they talked.

'No doubt about it. I know Dupleix. He's ambitious and with things as they are between us in Europe he see this as a chance to throw England out of this part of India, and maybe turn it into a French possession in time. He'll find we're a tougher nut to crack than Madras, you can be sure of that ! Still, not to worry about that for now. We'll find you some temporary quarters.Once you've got your bearings we'll find you some work here. You're still company employees, after all. I'll speak to you again, soon', Hinde concluded. 

In fact it was about a month before the new arrivals were offered positions much the same as they'd held in Madras. In the interval a number of other escapees from there arrived to join Clive, Maskelyne – now a firm friend of Clive's and nicknamed 'Mun' – Pybus, and Walsh.

Their new home was smaller than Madras but much more defensible, being built on higher ground by the sea with its defences in much better repair. The Governor had also taken the precaution of building up six months worth of supplies in case of a siege – Pondicherry was not much more than twelve miles north of the settlement. Despite this Clive found the place not much better than Madras. He had no work to do and with the surrounding countryside out of bounds there was little or no opportunity to leave the fort for shooting expeditions, or trips on the nearby river. No ships arrived from home bearing news, letters, goods or new friends to make. The main recreations were drinking or whoring, usually in the inevitably close 'Black-Town' named Cuddalore, a mile to the south of the fort, or gambling. Clive took a full part in all three activities, along with some old and some new friends. 

One evening, a week or so after arrival, Clive fell into a game of Vingt et Un with a number of other idlers, including an officer of the St David's garrison, a mercenary named James Carter. Before the game began Clive was given an assortment of wooden tokens of various sizes, which grew in value according to their size. Each player's tokens were a different colour, red, blue, green and so on, so it was clear who they had been allocated to. As the game progressed it was clear to Clive that Carter, with the assistance of another officer, was cheating. It wasn't that Carter was winning all the time, but that the other players, including Clive, kept losing to the bank when it was held by either Carter or his comrade. Either the deck was stacked or the two men were passing cards to each other. 

 

Clive watched them both carefully. At one point Carter called for the waiter 'Kitmutgar ! More wine. Jaldi jao ! As the servant filled the glasses he used the distraction to slip a card from the bottom of the deck to the top. Another ruse was when either of them held the bank the other would occasionally slip the second card away and claim another card, with the hidden card ready for use later on. Of course they couldn't do this too often, so they also marked the high value court cards when they received them.

The evening came to an end and it was time for the reckoning. From the reluctance of the other players to pay Carter it was clear to Clive that he wasn't the only one with misgivings about the game. The reputation of the two cheats as duellists clearly discouraged anyone from challenging them – any such accusation would inevitably mean an affair of honour would occur.

Having collected his winnings from the other players Carter turned to Clive, who had resolutely kept his purse in his pocket. Counting the tokens he held belonging to Clive he said 'Bad night for you, young man. Better luck next time, eh ?'

At this Clive bristled. 'I'll not pay you a damned penny !', he replied. 'I have observed you, with that other officer', pointing to Carter's accomplice, 'cheat vilely and completely. What you have won you have won through chicanery. It would be dishonest and a stain on my own honour to pay you anything'.

'You damned pup', shouted Carter. 'pay your debt and so withdraw your slander, or I'll face you outside with pistols this same day'.

Standing up from the table Clive drew himself to his full height, looking with a basilisk stare at the cardsharp, his face a burning red.

'You have my answer, sir. If pistols it is to be then let us set about it at once. I need no second. I will face you outside now'. With that he turned abruptly and stalked out of the room, into what was the early dawn, followed by Carter and all the other players. One or two tried to persuade Clive to pay up, telling him it wasn't worth the risk, that Carter was a deadly shot and so on – all good advice, But Clive would not be persuaded to withdraw, and brusquely shook off their entreaties. 

It didn't take very long to find two flint lock pistols but in the time it did quite a crowd gathered to watch the fun, or 'ensure fair play' as they put it. Someone gave Clive a pistol which had a barrel more than a foot long, primed and ready. He carefully checked the firing mechanism – he didn't want it failing this time as his pistol did twice in Madras. While angry he found he wasn't shaking in fear, though he was afraid. Perhaps his notorious temper enabled him to control his fear, he thought coldly.

With no seconds for either shooter there was little ceremony about the contest, no standing back to back and marching away as someone counted out the paces formally. They withdrew to about 20 yards apart and stood facing each other, pistols by their side, standing square on to each other. Though this made them both a bigger target, if hit there was little chance of hitting several vital organs. Standing side on placed both lungs and the heart at risk as the bullet entered one side of the torso and exited on the other. 

 

18

As the spectators hastily scuttled to what they considered a safe distance the man who had given them the pistols called clearly 'You may fire when ready'.

Without a thought Clive raised the heavy gun and fired. As the pistol boomed and the burnt powder smoked heavily through the air he looked to see his man downed. Yet as the air cleared and the noise faded away his opponent was still upright, facing him. He had missed. A chatter of conversation broke out among the spectators – 'He's done for, Carter won't miss, Will he run for it ?' were among the snatches of conversation that Clive heard, seemingly similtaneously. 

After a few second's pause Carter walked the short distance to Clive and held his pistol to the side of Clive's head. 'You may have your life if you ask me for it', said Carter. 'Do you desire to live, Clive ? If so, ask for it'.

Still scared but still not shaking Clive looked out of the corner of his eye at the fearsome gun pointing at his head. Nodding carefully, he said ' I ask it', in a steady voice.

“You will also withdraw your false accusations and pay me what you owe', said Carter.

A shudder ran through Clive as he heard what he considered an outrageous demand. 'And what if I refuse ? ' he asked. 

'Then I fire,' Carter told him. 

'Fire and be damned ! ' said Clive ; 'I said you cheated, I say so still, nor will I ever pay you'. 

Carter looked at him in astonishment. 'You are a madman, Clive, clearly a madman', He shook his head, threw the pistol away, and walked off. 'Men don't kill madmen, Clive', he called over his shoulder. 

As the crowd chattered in astonishment Mun, Walsh and Pybus appeared on the scene. They all implored him to report Carter for cheating. Clive refused saying 'He has given me my life and though I am resolved on never paying money which was unfairly won, or again associating with him, I shall never do him an injury'. It seemed that, like with the grasping captain of the Winchester, that Clive, who valued his life so little, felt a deep gratitude to those who saved or spared it.

It was soon after this that Clive made a surprising decision, one that shocked his friends. Leaving the company offices at the end of the day he said, simply,

'I've had enough of this clerking. One more day will see me driven mad'.

'We can see that, Robert', said John Pybus. 'Saved enough to get home, have you ?'

'I can't go home yet. My father will think I've failed him. No, I'm going to join the Company's army', Clive replied.

John Walsh looked at him in surprise. 'Bob, I believe you've gone mad already. We may sit near the bottom of the pile but a company soldier is there propping the whole thing up ! You won't be the lowest of the low but you won't be far off it'.

'I'll never be that base', Clive answered his friend, with some anger. 'But I'll never be anyone doing this soulless counting and batching for the rest of my days. I can see great opportunities for those with the notion to take them. I mean to be one. Besides, we've not settled with the French yet, as the Governor said. I won't see another English fort surrender so meekly to them again'.

'Do you know, Robert', said Mun, 'I think you're right. I'll join you. Better to be able to fight properly than stand around like we had to in Madras'.

Resigning their positions as clerks both men volunteered for service with the small force that was placed in the fort to defend it. There was no formal process of interview or assessment – the garrison consisted of 200 Europeans and 100 native sepoys. It was a mixed force, as Hinde told them. He had been the effective commander of the garrison since the death of its regular officer, Major Knipe, in 1743.

'You'll be welcomed. Our Europeans are a mixed bunch of mercenaries from the German states and Switzerland, mostly. We've some English soldiers who preferred to stay rather than go home. They're our best men. Add to that the sepoys, who are decent soldiers. Any European recruit is taken in as a welcome addition'.

'Why do the natives enlist to serve the Company ?', Clive asked him. 'I wouldn't serve a foreign army were they, God forbid, to conquer England'.

'Simple enough', he was told. 'We pay them regularly, they earn a pension, and if they get hurt we do our best to look after them. When you compare that to the way the Indian princes treat their soldiers I only wonder why we can't recruit more. In any case, we're here for trade, not conquest. We do not occupy, so they have no insult to their pride. Now, if you both report to the garrison office tomorrow at 8 am I'll arrange for your induction and training'.

Next morning both men arrived at the allotted time. Waiting for them was a white soldier, wearing the stripes of a sergent. He was of middle height and deeply tanned, indicating long service. Clive supposed he would be about forty years old. 'You'll be Clive and Maskelyne', he said. 'I'm Sergent Atkinson, in charge of training new European recruits – not that we get many of 'em. Have either of you soldiered before ?' 

Both men shook their heads. 

'Any experience with pistol or musket, then ?', they were asked. 

'I can handle a pistol', Clive said. 'Me, too', Maskelyne added. 

'Well, that's a start I suppose', replied Atkinson. 'We won't be getting to musketry for while. First job is to get you properly dressed, teach you to march, and so on. You'll learn the basic signals, by hand, flag and bugle. If you still feel like you want to be a soldier after that we'll start teaching you to fire a musket. Uniforms first – follow me'. With that he led them from the office to another small building nearby. Stacked around on tables and shelves were a variety of military uniforms.

Atkinson looked at the both of them with a practised eye, then rummaged around the piles of clothing. After a few moments he picked out two red coats, white trousers, shirts, boots that reached up to just below the knee, and a pair of white cross belts. Lastly they were given tricorne hats. All the items were in new condition but were slightly musty. 

'Get yourselves into uniform, then, gentlemen. After that we'll go back to the office, register you on garrison strength, and begin your training. We'll sort out the rest of your equipment – mess tins, water bottles and additional clothing – later today'. 

That was the start of a hard week for Clive and Mun. Atkinson marched them round the dusty fort square for what seemed hours at a time, sometimes singly, sometimes together, and sometimes in platoon strength of around thirty men. It was hot, tiring and dusty work. Thirsty as well – they were glad they'd been issued with water bottles before it started. Despite this they both mastered basic drill – they felt they marched and drilled better than a lot of the other soldiers they'd trained with.

At the end of a week of this Atkinson stood them at ease on the square. 'Still want to soldier, gentlemen ?', he asked.

'I do', said Mun.

'It's better than counting bales of cloth and filling in ledgers, though I hope it gets more exciting than this', answered Clive. 

'You might find, Mr Clive, that when it gets exciting you'll look back at the drill to find you prefer it', Atkinson replied.

'Never', Clive replied. 'I want to progress. I can't do that clerking or marching. Chaos brings opportunity, opportunity brings advancement, if you dare to take it. I will dare. In any case, Sergeant, this week has been a test, has it not ?'. 

Atkinson smiled, then nodded. 'A test you have both passed', he said. 

'In that case, can I ask you a question or two ?'. 

'Ask as you wish, though I may not answer'.

'Firstly, given we are common soldiers you treat us with uncommon respect. Why so ?'.

'The Governor has you both marked for officer. Make it hard for them, he told me, to judge their mettle. He sees your spirit, and pride, in your escape from Madras. Still, marching and drill doesn't make a soldier. You have more to do. You have another question ?'.

'I do, though you may refuse to answer. I wonder why you remain here, and have not returned to England ? What keeps an experienced and intelligent man like yourself in India ? Further advancement would surely await you at home'.

'Mr Clive, you should know better than that. I'm a common man – no commission for me. Also, I can live better here in the company pay than I ever could in England on a soldier's pay. Besides', he added, 'I have ties here'.

'Ties ? What may they be ?'

'A woman, and children'. 

'Why not take them home ?'

'She is a native woman, and the children are half caste. That would never be accepted in England, not even in my family. So I make a life here'.

Clive nodded. 'How did this come about ?'.

'She was a whore, in the Black Town. She had a beauty that caught me, so I used her many times. I became jealous of the thought of other men having her so I bought her freedom and married her, after a fashion. So here I stay. Now, when we resume we will learn something of tactics and signals, and the firing and care of the musket. You are dismissed, gentlemen'.

 

After another week or so of rudimentary training in the art of soldiering Atkinson decided that it was time Clive and Mun became acquainted with their basic weapon, the smoothbore musket and its fearsome companion, the long spike bayonet. Reporting as normal in the early morning sun  
they were marched outside the fort to a target range set in a large, dusty depression. Strips of paper, vaguely man shaped and sized, were pinned to wooden boards. Behind it was a large earth bank, which stopped the many stray shots that missed the target, Three lines of posts set at 50, 75, and 100 yards marked the firing lines. Waiting for them was another soldier from the garrison with two long muskets and two box shaped cartridge bags.

Atkinson took one of the muskets and turned to them. 'This is the Long Pattern smooth bore musket, most often called Brown Bess. It fires a ball about 7/10ths of an inch. For an individual target it's accurate to about 100 yards for a marksmen, effective to up to another 75 yards when fired in volley against a massed enemy. Most times you'll be firing at a lot shorter range – 50 yards is a regular distance. Here, Clive, try it for weight', he added, and carefully handed the musket to him.

'About 10 pounds or so, Sergeant', said Clive, as he hefted the weapon in one hand. 

Atkinson nodded, and took the gun back. 'Before you fire it you'll have to master how to load it', he said. 'It's not difficult but it takes some practise. A good soldier can fire three rounds a minute. Now listen carefully while I go through the loading drill'.

'First, half cock the musket, then open the frizzen, or firing pan, at the side. Check that the touch hole is clear of old powder. Next, take one cartridge from the cartridge box, which you'll wear on your side'. He mimed get a cartridge from the box. 'The cartridge has the ball at the top. Bite it off and hold the ball in your mouth. Next put a small amount of powder in the firing pan, then close it to keep the powder in and dry. Don't put too much or too little in or you'll have problems firing. Any questions so far ?', he asked. With no reply he continued the demonstration.

'Place the butt of the musket on the ground and pour the rest of the powder down the barrel. Spit the ball in, then break up the paper cartridge and push the pieces into the barrel. That will stop the ball just rolling out. Ramrod next, take it out from under the barrel, and push the paper down to the bottom, then ram it up and down a few inches three or four times to pack the powder, ball and paper tight'. He looked sharply at Clive. 'Next step, Clive ?'

'Take the ramrod out of the barrel and place it back in position under the barrel', Clive responded.

'Very good. You don't want to fire with that still in the barrel. Next bring the musket up to your shoulder, present, ready to fire, and fully cock. You're now ready to fire. Wait now while I go through it again', and Atkinson went through the whole business another time.

'Right', he said, after the second demonstration, 'Maskelyne, show Clive and I how to ready your musket, and with that he passed the weapon to Mun. 

In all he was made to run through the mime three times before Atkinson was satisfied. The first time he forgot to remove the ramrod and got a sharp reminder from Atkinson, but otherwise he was flawless, if a little slow. 'Speed will come with practise', said the sergeant. 'Now you, Mr Clive, if you please'. Clive took the musket from Mun and ran through the drill quickly and without a mistake three times. 'Time to take a shot at the targets', Atkinson remarked, and led them to the line of posts set closest to the paper target.

'Tom', he said to the other soldier, 'Show them how to wear the cartridge box'. The soldier picked up one box, and passed the looped strap over his left shoulder, positioning the cartridge box on his right hip. Taking it off he passed one box to the new recruits. Once the two men had the boxes properly fixed Atkinson took one musket, ran through the demonstration again, this time loading the weapon, and fired at one of the targets. As the flint ignited the charge a billow of smoke was emitted, as the black powder ignited. 'Watch for that, both of you. You'll get used to it but it's a shock the first few times. You'll have seen the smoke before, firing a pistol, but now it's right by your face. Step up, Maskelyne, and show us how it's done. Face forwards at all times and do not move the musket from in front of you at any time'. Mun stepped up while Tom ensured they were all a good six feet behind him.

Mun executed what seemed a flawless loading and presented and locked the musket at the target. 'Fire', shouted Atkinson. Mun pulled the trigger, there was a flash and a puff of smoke, then nothing. 'Misfire', shouted the sergeant. 'Keep the weapon pointed forwards', he said, and walked carefully toward a mystified Mun. 'Open the frizzen', he was told. 'Not enough powder to fire the main charge, young man. Pan's clean enough. Take another cartridge and drop the ball. Refresh the pan, and try again'. This time he stayed close by Mun's side. Mun did as he was told, presented the musket and fired at the target. Again there was the flash and smoke but again the ball wasn't discharged.

Mun started to turn to Atkinson, swinging the weapon round as he turned. 'Not enough..' he started to say, when Atkinson shouted 'Face forward', pushing the barrel back towards the target. As he did so the musket banged loudly and the round was discharged, high into the air over the target.

'Too much powder, Maskelyne. Took longer to burn through to the main charge. Called a hang fire. Never swing round away from your target. Let's try again'.

Atkinson kept them at it till they'd both fired around twenty rounds before he called a halt. 'Sun's getting hot, time to stop for while. We'll go into that little shabdkosh' – he indicated a small shelter near the entrance to the range – and show you the most important thing you need to know - how to clean your musket so it doesn't let you down'.

Entering the shed Clive saw a copper of hot water and some sort of liquid soap in a large dish \there were also three sets of small tools – screw drivers, brushes, and so on – placed on a work bench. 

'Black powder corrodes metal', said Atkinson, as he picked up another musket that was propped up against the bench. 'Also, excess powder residue can cause misfires, as we have seen. You must clean the weapon on regularly, especially after it has been used in action. A good soldier will clean his musket as soon as possible after extended use. Mr Clive, what's the first step you take ?', he barked at Clive.

'Check the weapon isn't loaded', Sergeant', Clive replied quickly.

'Very good, that's right. Kindly do so now, gentlemen', Atkinson replied.

Once that essential step had been completed the two men followed Atkinson step by step, as he took them through the process of disassembling the long musket, cleaning it, and then reassembling it.

'First, take the ramrod out and put it to one side', he began. 'Then put the musket in half cock, and loosen and remove the cock screw, the upper vice jaw and the flint. Set them aside to be cleaned seperately'. He waited a moment while they followed his instructions.

'Next we remove the barrel. Underneath it, where it joins the body of the gun, there are a series of pins holding it in place. Remove them like so', he said, as he identified the pin locations and removed them with a small nail punch. 'Line them up on the bench in the order they came out', he continued. 'Last step in removing the barrel is to unscrew the tang screw, here, where the rear of the barrel ends, then lift the barrel out, after putting the screw on the bench next to the other removed parts'.

'Now for the cleaning. Get a cup of hot water with a drop or two of soap. Pour it down the front of the barrel, and keep doing so until the water runs clear out of the vent hole'. As he poured the water it drained out at first dark and dirty, but after 3 or 4 applications, it ran clean. 'Bore brush now', he continued. 'Make sure it's clean and then gently push it up and down the barrel to remove any remaining powder or dirt in the barrel'. He waited while they followed his lead, then showed them how to dry and lubricate the barrel with a small amount of oil, to prevent rust. After that they re-inserted and reattached the barrel using the pins and screw removed earlier.

'All done, Sergeant Atkinson ?', said Mun as he finished attaching the barrel to the musket.

'We've not cleaned or re-attached the firing mechamism yet', Clive reminded him.

'Quite correct, still more work to do', Atkinson said, as he picked up the locking mechanism for his weapon. Again he ran a mixture of hot water and soap over the entire mechanism, then scrubbed the entire assembly with a small stiff brush. Rinsing and drying it, he then carefully oiled all but a part of the lock. As the two recruits followed suit he said ' Remember not to get any oil on the flint or frizzen face'. Once cleaning was complete the mechanism was screwed back into place, the exterior of the weapon cleaned with an oily rag, and the ramrod, once cleaned, re-inserted under the barrel. 'One final step, gentlemen. Check the locking mechanism is working correctly', and he examined first Clive's musket, then Mun's carefully. Nodding with satisfaction, he said 'Good work,   
both of you. But remember, many times the weapon will need cleaning in the field, without everything you have here being available, and not in ideal conditions. Don't use that as a reason not to do what you can. A dirty musket may misfire and cost you, or a comrade, your life. Look after it so it can look after you'. With that he dismissed them.

As they made their way back to the fort along the dusty path, in the relative cool of the Indian autumn afternoon Clive looked round to make sure there was no-one in earshot. With no one nearby he turned to Mun and said quietly 'What do you think of our sergeant's domestic affairs ?'

'What do you mean ?', his friend asked him.

'Why, his marriage, of course !', responded Clive.

'What of it ? It's not uncommon at all for a soldier or even a company official to marry a native woman, as long she's is high caste, or from a decent family', Mun replied.

'But she is a common prostitute ! I would be loath to marry any native woman – I would never consider an association with a whore !', Clive said, with some vehemence. 'I think the less of him for it', he finished.

Mun looked at Clive. 'Well, Robert', he said, 'who knows the way that love affects men ? You may, perforce, find yourself in the same position. After all, you have the same needs as any other man, and like most other men here you satisfy them using the native women'.

'That is entirely different. I see nothing wrong with the transaction with such women, but to marry one is beyond my understanding'. At that the conversation trailed off and they finished their walk back to the fort in silence.

While Clive continued to learn the craft of soldiering events elsewhere in The Carnatic continued to unfold. Having persuaded the Nawab of the region, Anwar-ud-Din, to remain neutral by promising him the city of Madras once captured, the French commander, Dupliex, now refused to hand it over. Enraged the Nawab sent an army of ten thousand under his son Mafhuz Khan against them. However, the three hundred French soldiers they met on the banks of the Adyar river beat them thoroughly, showing the superiority of trained European soldiers against the disorganised and ill equipped native troops. Dupleix now turned his eye on the smaller, and seemingly weaker, Fort St David, with the aim of removing British influence from the entire region.

About a week into December French forces advanced from Pondicherry and by 9th December had burst through the outer defences of the fort, known as the Bounds Hedge and camped in Governor's villa, about two miles from the fort. Unforgivably, in setting up their camp, they neglected to take the most basic military precautions, probably because they didn't believe the British had the capability of mounting any effective attack. However, the Nawab, smarting from the defeat at Adyar, sent a force of 2500 cavlry to assist the Britsh, and a joint attack drove the French headlong from their camp, abandoning most of their gear and equipment.


	5. The Reckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clive suffers from the 'gleats' or running of the reins and undergoes a painful treatment

The Reckoning 

Like most young men Clive was always eager for the company of attractive young women, or at least the company of their bodies. If he had a romantic heart he had, as yet, no desire to bestow it on any particular lady. Unfortunately, given the distance from England and the health hazards of living there, there were very few European woman in the foreign settlements in India and most of those were either married or betrothed as soon as they came of age. The East India Company also actively discouraged European women from the country, requiring them to apply for permission to enter India, and sending back, usually on the same ship that had brought them, any female who arrived without authorisation. Inevitably the solution was to be found among the native women. Despite the warnings of Saunders when Clive was in Madras about the unsuitability of such arrangements it was common for Europeans who had the means to form longstanding relationships with Indian women, called 'bibis', including living and maintaining a household with them, some times with more than one.

Even if he had the means such a relationship held no interest for Clive. His tastes were very catholic and he was far too young to restrict himself to one woman, however attractive. Nor did he consider the native woman as racially his equal. To satisfy his appetite Clive resorted to the various brothels that existed in the native town of Cuddalore. These were of various sizes but none could be termed grand or elegant - Fort St David was, after all, considerably smaller than Madras. Clive had a taste for good things, especially clothes, but where sex was involved such considerations were secondary.

Despite spreading his interest wide Clive developed a preference for one of the larger establishments, where the range of women available, from dark Indian girls, some of whom seemed to be nautch dancers, to lighter hued women of mixed race, was largest. Most were either Kasbi ( belonging to family which practices hereditary sex trade) or Randi (first generation prostitute). With neither military training or his duties absorbing too much of his time Clive was a regular visitor, calling two to three times a week, sometimes in the company of a friend but most often on his own.

Inevitably there was a price to pay for such promiscuity. A few weeks after the abortive French attack he woke in the middle of the night with an urgent need to urinate. He reached for the chamber pot under his bed and as he began to pass water felt a painful burning sensation. Once finished he immediately lit a candle and inspected his penis. It came as no surprise to him that his foreskin was swollen and painful, nor that it was emitting a small pus-like discharge. Cursing quietly he realised he had caught the dreaded 'running reins', gonorrohea, for a second time. His first business of the morning, apart from avoiding the need to urinate, was a visit to the Fort's surgeon to begin the painful and primitive treatment of the infection.

As soon as he decently could that morning without drawing attention to himself, Clive made his way to see the Company's resident doctor. Fortunately there was no one else there so he didn't have to talk to anyone or lie about the reason for his visit. Venereal disease was called the silent sickness as there was a sense of shame about catching it, and often sufferers tried to disguise its symptoms in various ways while being treated. Of course the real shame was that so many continued to have sexual relations while suffering from it, putting their usually unknowing partners at risk. This included a considerable number of married men, who didn't want their wives to know they'd been infected as it would clearly indicate their infidelity.

The doctor – or surgeon as he was more commonly known – had his office in a small house just outside the walls of the fort. As soon as he knocked on the door Clive heard the doctor's deep voice call out, briskly, 'Come in' and he quickly opened the door.

As he entered he saw the doctor sat at his desk, immediately facing the doorway. His office, or surgery, was a largish room, with space for not only his desk and chair but two additional chairs opposite, and a bunk like bed for examinations. Along one wall were a series of cupboards containing both medical equipment, drugs, herbs and bottles of various potions, while the opposite wall had a number of bookcases against it, filled, mostly, with medical books. The room was scrupulously clean.

Norton, the doctor, was a craggy old Scot im his fifties, with a brisk, no nonsense manner. He looked up at Clive as he came in. 'Young Mr Clive, is it ? Now what can I do for you today'. As Clive hesitated to answer and looked away slightly, he spoke again.

'Ach, ye've got the gleats agin, haven't ye ? Did ye no use any armour ta protect yerself ?', he asked ?

'Most of the time', said Clive, looking down and reddening.

'Ye know well from the last time, that's nae guid enough', Norton replied, shaking his head. 'Ach, well, no use bleating about it. We have ta deal with what we have ta deal with', he continued. 'Maybe's a second treatment o' quicksilver will finally teach ye some sense ?'

Clive was no coward but his last treatment for 'gleats', as the disease was also known, had been both very painful and deeply embarrassing. 'Is there any alternative to the mercury, Mr Norton ?', he asked.

'Och, we've plenty o' choices', he replied. 'We can use drinks of wood bark, sarseperill, and licqorish. We can sweat and salivate ye to force the bad humours out, or use an application of quick silver paste to your privy parts, or a dozen or more other remedies, but tay my mind the mercury injection is the quickest and most sure, especially in the early stages'. With that he pointed to the couch, and said 'Prepare yeself for examination on there', while he poured water from a ewer into a large bowl and washed his hands.

Norton examined him thoroughly while asking questions about the onset of the symptoms and their intensity. When he'd finished he instructed Clive to get dressed while he washed his hands once more. When they were both seated again Norton spoke.

'Weel, yure a foolish young man but ye've looked to catch it early, whuch is a gud thing. Many a man has no symptoms to speak of till the harm is done. I recommend the mercury but I can try other remedies. But some, like sweating and salivation, tak' time and wull leave ye unfit for duty while being applied'. With this he looked at Clive, questioningly.

Clive thought at first of the pain of the mercury injection, which was intense but shouldn't be debilitating at his age. Additionally a lower dosage would be required as he had sought treatment early. Not only would the other treatments interrupt his training and fitness for duty, it would be obvious what his illness was, to the detriment of his reputation. It seemed that the only suitable treatment was by mercury injection. 'The mercury by syringe seems, as you suggest, my best option', he told Norton.

'Very well, Mr Clive. As ye know t'will take regular injections over the course of some weeks before we can see a relief of the symptoms and so an indication that the pox has been cleared. Come back at 5pm today and I'll have the first properly mixed dose in a syringe ready for ye. The matter will, of course, remain confidential between us, so you be as discreet as possible yourself', Norton told him.

Over the course of the next weeks Clive attended the surgery three times a week to be given an injection of the mercury potion directly into his urethra using a syringe made of bone, with a slighly bent 'needle' to facilitate its insertion. The treatment was excrutiatingly painful, both in application and effect but eventually the symptoms began to lessen and at the end of five weeks Norton pronounced him cured. 'Always use a barrier in the future', he reminded Clive after the last injection had seemed to have cured the infection. Nor did it seem that anyone had discovered his afflication, apart from, of course, his friend Mun. 

'Not been to Black Town recently, Robert ?', Mun said to him two weeks into his treatment. 

'No', Clive mumbled, 'not inclined to, at present'.

'I think I can guess why – least said soonest mended, eh ?', replied his friend quietly, and left it at that.

While Clive was undergoing this painful treatment neither Governor Hinde in the British settlement nor the French commander Dupleix had been idle. The defences at the Fort were strengthened and the garrison had been increased by the recruitment of native soldiers. Dupleix was still determined to drive the British from the region and made plans for a further attack from Pondicherry. The only surprise was that the French didn't attack well before the 11th March in 1747, three months after their initial failure. This time Dupleix had cajoled, flattered and bribed the Nawab into a position of neutrality so there would be no help from that quarter for the British, as there had been the preceding December.

When news of the French advance reached Hinde the garrison, including Clive, marched out to confront them. Included in this still inferior force was a troop of horsemen and three cannons. They found the French force were on the other side of the River Pennar from the Fort. Determined to deny them an easy passage of the river the British forces deployed their field guns and engaged in an artillery duel across the river which went on most of the day, resulting in a number of casualties on both sides. Late in the afternoon scouts from the troop of horseman discovered the French had crossed the river in force further west, out of cannon range. To avoid being outflanked and trapped against the river the British quickly withdrew to the comparative safety of the fort.


End file.
